I write with erasers
I traveled the world
and all the statues in athens
blushed with their voices
when they whispered
they don't read poetry
|My second DD |
shape of sunshineThe world is letting me live again.shape of sunshine by ~InkatMidnight
It’s unlocked my multi-layered cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out all the shivers.
I’m so in love with my friend Spring,
Her swaying air and entreating Sun. I listen.
I bare my shoulders and walk outside.
The weather has always been my bass line
It sets my rhythm, the shrill tones of shivering
When all my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind. Winter
Is grating, and I pray for the days when the air
Is soft. I rock to the old-guitar strumming of the wind.
When spring flips the radio dial, I crawl into the sun.
UntitledThe world is letting me live again.Untitled by ~InkatMidnight
It’s unlocked my cage and
My winter coat shackles, and I’m
Baking myself until I sweat out
All the shivers, and I’m so in love
With the swaying air and the pounding
Sun. The weather has always
Been my bass line, it’s set my rhythm,
And sometimes I’m shivering and
All my cells are imprisoned, rigid
In the ice and the whip of the wind,
But there are days when the air
Is soft and I complete this summer scene,
My optimism and teenage limbs resting
In the embrace of “This is all I ask.”
I only ask to pink shrinking shoulders
In this sidewalk hotplate, forever.
I am n
terabyte ruinswe've clicked the help buttonterabyte ruins by ~InkatMidnight
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
|As I dig for the wild orchids|
in the autumn fields,
it is the deeply bedded root
that I desire,
not the flower.
persieveSkin like blank slates,persieve by ~psithurisms
left to be nurtured by the breaths of long nights
and pressed by fingers, heavy like paper weights,
to keep your words together, intact,
real, so maybe you might be, too.
You can feel dawn slipping under your lids,
life gripping at your toes and dragging you
through the trampled tracks.
As easy as it is, to close your eyes
and pretend this is just the worst part of the ride,
you want to see just how badly you bruise.
And you wait for daylight to settle on your bones,
like a coat of potential,
before the evening drags you from under the veils
to look, look at yourself.
Convenience Teach me how to trap your firefly breathsConvenience by ~psithurisms
in the net of my tessellated skin,
so if I wake, short of recollections,
I still have the chance to watch my pores
lie open against yours, alive.
Walk your fingers along my clavicles
like they lead you home,
where the walls thump a rhythm you can dance
and die to.
And to be shamelessly honest,
I dare ask you to burn a little brighter for me
when you wake and find that the longer I stay,
the less I stand on my own.
december second two thousand twelvewe laugh and shift awkwarddecember second two thousand twelve by ~Aquarius-Claire
leaning on our lilting limbs trembling
forward to blue horizon and the shouting mists that
never seem to say too much beyond what is
obvious already anyway to us the milk-white
shrouded splendor of some other person’s sadness
when there wasn’t anything left to put
between his teeth he had to eat
a graveyard shift instead there was an earthquake
there he explained and we believed him as we dotted
our eyelids with gray but not beneath we did not want
our crying to leave track marks like his trackmarks we
can’t look at trains the same way anymore, we are going to drink
an avalanche of sad rather than
lemonwe walk down the streetslemon by *antonfrost
of a city named after an emerald.
a breeze floats by
and for a moment your hair lifts off your shoulder.
the way it doesn't touch you,
i want to touch you.
there are traces of lemon in your light,
a vague sense of mint on your fingertips.
the way honey tastes
drifts inside your shirt.
entering the city
walking calmly while the light falls
is like listening to your voice,
like waiting at the bell by the river
for a clamoring to do justice
to the patterns on the water.
the way the bells never end
i want to brush my hand against yours.
the way you drop lemon into your water
i want to live.